


In Prayer

by Quilljoy



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Daddy Kink, Intercrural Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Kink, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Wet Dream, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:11:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9378026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilljoy/pseuds/Quilljoy
Summary: Credence fantasizes about Mr. Graves."He's gotten to this perilous place where his head and his body command him to sin, and fighting temptation has become ever so difficult with Mr. Graves in mind. "





	

**Author's Note:**

> Things on my to-do list: finish my Graves/Tina story.
> 
> Things I did not do: finish my Graves/Tina story.
> 
> Have some Graves/Credence porn I wrote instead.

 

 

> _I cried out to him with my mouth;_  
>  _his praise was on my tongue._
> 
> _Psalm 66:17_  

 

Credence fantasizes.

Mr. Graves gives up on this… thing he’s been looking for. Credence doesn’t want to think about it. His fantasy doesn’t entertain the whats or whys. it just happens. One day he doesn’t ask questions anymore, and Credence doesn’t have to find himself coming up with another excuse for being a failure.

It goes like that:

His hands are hurting. It always start with his hands hurting, maybe because he’s never met Mr. Graves under different circumstances, maybe because he likes Mr. Graves’ thumb rolling over the welts. Pin and needles, but the bruises mend under his touch. It’s just a sliver of magic, but it’s the most precious thing Credence has ever seen – has ever had. It’s fleeting, but in a world of washed out colors, it's real. His dreams, too, brighten up when he imagines the buzz of a spell reverberating on his skin.

"Son," Mr. Graves says, fingers tightening around his shoulder. It's kinda silly, but Credence can't help it. And it the safety of his bed, wrapped tightly in a duvet, he can be silly, and imagine Mr. Graves talking to him as if he were good. "It's time for you to come with me."

The dreams always get muddy by this this point, because sometimes Credence wants it to be true so much he doesn't care about the details, and other nights – nights he goes to bed with his belly empty and his back aching – he wants to earn it. But tonight Credence doesn't imagine it's his own power that knits his skin back together and tightens around his mother's neck by a chokehold, earning Mr. Graves' approval. Tonight, it's Mr. Graves again, bursting the door to his home open to rescue him.

"Keep your hands off the boy." Mr. Graves has his wand up. His words are steel, impossible to do anything but to bend to. It's the voice of a man who's somebody. Not even Ma knows men like him; not even Ma can raise her hand against a man like him. She doesn't even try before Mr. Graves flickers his wrist. The entire house shakes once her body hits the walls.

Credence feels it with such longing it's almost like remembering.

He doesn't think of Modesty or Chastity. But he thinks of mother's cooling corpse, and it gets him damn near giddy with euphoria and with shame, because that's what will take for him to be free. That's what happens when Mr. Graves, dreamlike and kind, appears to magic him away. Night after night, no matter the differences in convoluted storylines, it always ends up the same way; with Mr. Graves' hands upon him, and his mother dead.

It takes a lot of effort to conjure what happens next. Most of the time, he's content to let Mr. Graves embrace him under his roof. First, because his arms seems like the right place to be, and where doesn't matter as long as he can sink his head on the warmth of Mr. Graves' chest. Second, because the rotten wooden walls are easy. He's familiar with his room. He knows the shallow corners of his house and little else.

It's almost spellwork, to imagine the world Mr. Graves promised to take him to, where sorcery isn't a curse and where he ain't to be beat for being a freak.

(Secretly, he's afraid he will never display the power Mr. Graves is looking for, so Credence hangs onto the faces of the people he encounters, he builds his strength from each snicker, from each stare he gets. It's alright to be weird, he realizes, if Mr. Graves likes him better for it. So he lets it grow on his mind, until his mother's cries of "Wicked!" and "Abnormal!" feel like a kindness.)

This place is stitched from bits and pieces of the outside. Because Credence only meets Mr. Graves under the cover of darkness, the Wizarding World is made up of alleyways and cobblestone streets, passages that disappear at will – just like Mr. Graves –, stores and houses that are always moving places. It gleams bright under the magic. Brighter than the entire world under sunlight, even.

They always live together. The feeling of being cared for tightens his chest, warm and comfortable, despite his covers being stretched thin from years of use, so rough they scratch his skin. Credence ignores his reality to live in dreams, sighing quietly, not understand why he grasps for his bed sheets and bites down on the pillow to stop himself from groaning.

Mr. Graves saves him, so he takes "responsibility" – that's what Mr. Graves say to him, because Ma is dead and he needs caring for. Credence is an adult and he doesn't know why Mr. Graves believe he needs caring, when he's been tending to his home and to the orphans' food on his own, but he's grateful for it anyways. It's never because Mr. Graves finds him a simpleton. Even in his dreams, it takes Credence a lot of chewing of words and spitting them out fearfully to ask, but Mr. Graves is never condescending.

"You will be a great wizard one day, son." He says, rubbing the tension away from Credence's tired shoulders. The voice soothes his aches. This very morning, Credence was to scrub the clothes clean until his fingers were raw. It seems in another reality entirely altogether. "You just needs guidance. That's all."

It's a touch. A simple touch, and Credence's mind flies to a dangerous path, imagining how else this man is to touch his body, when the real Mr. Graves has done nothing of sorts but to hold him with the kindest of intentions. It's sinful to imagine him doing otherwise. Credence just cannot help himself. Earlier the night, he's folded his hands in prayer, but soon his fingers grow busy slipping under his chemise.

It's nothing daring, at first. His nails scratch tentatively down his stomach. Trimmed short, they don't provide the relief Credence is looking for. Pain should drag his conscience back to his bed, and to the day of chores he's got ahead of him. It should make him a better person. A dutiful son.

"It's okay," Mr. Graves whisper against his throat. "You're a good boy."

Credence wonders if Mr. Graves would really think that of him, if he knew just how deeply wicked Credence's dreams have become. Well, no– Not dreams. With dreams, Credence has the excuse to plead they were not wanted. They could've as well been nightmares, with Mr. Graves drawing closer and doing unspeakable things to him.

This is merely desire.

He twists and turns, willing away his shameful need for Mr. Graves, hoping the covers of the night hide just how wanton he's become. His hands dare no further and his garments only torture him so. Credence is afraid to look, but he knows he's hard, and he's leaking, and he'll be beat by his mother the following morning for it. He can only hope it'll bruise, and Mr. Graves will mend him afterwards.

One day, Mr. Graves will be the one to undo him and put him back together. He'll cradle Credence's fingers between his own, and take upon himself to kiss them one by one, sliding his tongue between the crevices, sucking on the pads of his thumb until he draws blood. Licking it better, afterwards.

Credence nearly groans at the thought.

He's got to be careful, now. He's gotten to this perilous place where his head and his body command him to sin, and fighting temptation has become ever so difficult with Mr. Graves in mind. It's hard to remember if he's ever had someone else before when now he's occupied with this imposing man, handsomer than he's ever seen, with the nice, polished shoes, with such good clothes. He makes Credence shy just to be near him in his threadbare suit. Makes him wonder how things would be if his suit were really threadbare. If Mr. Graves would spell it away, as he does with his wounds and the rest of his troubles, and if he were naked in front of Mr. Graves, what would he do?

If Mr. Graves could see him now, fists tightening in an effort not to touch himself, what would he do?

"It's alright," he whispers, taking Credence into his arms and to his bed. "You're safe with me."

"Mr. Graves." The words come difficult to him, just as Credence knows they would. "I don't want to be safe."

Credence moans because, no, he doesn't. Salvation comes to those who deserve it, and Credence would rather have Mr. Graves and burn in the pits of hell than be saved. He's read about it. If the Lord's to turn him to salt and ashes for wanting another man, Credence's sure he'd have done so anyways, because at nights, though he prays for Jesus with his voice, it's Mr. Graves in his thoughts, radiant like a god himself. It isn't love, it's worship, and it's wrong all the same. So Credence folds like he'd, under Mr. Graves, and slips his hand, between his legs, fisting his cock with a cry of pleasure that echoes through the silent house.

It's an old house. It creaks and shakes under the wind, and nobody appears. Credence can only be grateful for it, wondering if there's a little bit of Mr. Graves' magic inside of him, if he, too, can conjure a cover of silence and darkness to wrap him tightly and make him go unnoticed. No one's ever noticed him before Mr. Graves. He's had no one to worship before, and not even the Lord himself paid attention to his pleas, which is why he's so fervent in his adoration, thinking about the firm grip of Mr. Graves' hands as he speeds up his pace.

Credence plays at being innocent as well as he plays at being an adept at magic, but this time, he'd rather be wicked, kissing his idol before he's invited to. It isn't the sort of kiss a son might press against his father's cheek. It isn't even the chaste kissing he's witnessed at weddings. Credence slides his tongue inside Mr. Graves' mouth, teasing it open, and the man is quick to respond.

Now, the next part of his fantasies is always muddled, because no matter how much he's heard of it at the congregation, he's never… done it, with a man. Not with a girl, either, but those sermons are more explicit, and the Bible is riffle with passages describing what transpires between a man and a woman. Now, his Ma's warned him against it before, almost as if she knew – as if it'd been stamped on his face – that he was a– a sodomite. Picturing what happens when a man lays with another man is difficult, but it doesn't stop Credence from trying, and from feeling wickedly so about it, when he imagines Mr. Graves' engorged cock. He's barely ever looked at himself, when he bathes. But as the man is larger than him, it would make sense for him to be large down there, too. Credence has never seen him without his cape, but beneath layers of clothing, he imagines Mr. Graves is stocky but firm, like the whole rest of him, with barely any hair on his chest. Strong enough to hold Credence down, but not want to. He'd treat Credence with kindness. At least the first time. (The good thing about dreams, Credence reckons, is that he can have as many first times he desires.)

His mouth waters just thinking about it. Credence feels his drool pooling on the pillow beneath him, just like he feels the erratic beats of his heart as his hips thrust forward to meet his hands. If possible – if Mr. Graves wanted him to – he'd do that to him. Even if his fingers are thin and bony. He'd like to hold Mr. Graves' cock very much. And just like he pictures kissing him, maybe Mr. Graves would've liked to be kissed there, on the tip of it. The idea beckons to him like fire. His whole body is aflame, despite the cold of winter outside. If only Credence could make him feel like this…

He's seen a picture of it, once, of a man on all fours with another man on top of him. His mother has intended him to see it as a warning. Instead, it fuels Credence's imagination.

There's nothing he wants more than to please this man. Credence knows just how wonderful is to tighten his hands, vice-like, around his cock, and pump it until completion. But his hands are weak and callused while his thighs are soft, and if Mr. Graves would want to – If he wanted to, if he looked at Credence and wanted him for it – he'd let him put Credence on all of fours. And slid his cock between his thighs. He'd keep his legs closed and tighten his muscles, just to make it more pleasant for him, he supposes, thinking vaguely of where else Mr. Graves could rub against that would give him pleasure. Credence turns on the bed, pressing his cheek against the pillow, cock against the mattress, and it's too much for him to imagine anymore. He spills between his hands, milking his cock for what's worth it, groaning Mr. Graves' name.

His skin is damp with sweat and he's left cold. Guilt for what he's doing should hit him, but Credence isn't remorseful, he's only ever hopeful.

One day, he won't have to fantasize anymore. 


End file.
